


The best of all bad decisions

by SunshineSea



Category: Tyranny (Video Game)
Genre: Anal Sex, Aphrodisiacs, Enthusiastic Consent, M/M, Orgasm Denial, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, Praise Kink, Restraints, Rutting, Size Difference, Size Kink, Taking Turns, You know that random encounter with the berries that make you horny?, degradation kink, no beta we die like men
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-11-19
Updated: 2019-11-19
Packaged: 2021-02-13 01:10:46
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,900
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21485872
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SunshineSea/pseuds/SunshineSea
Summary: “When I was younger, I ate a handful of Budding Rose and tied myself to a tree.”Sinking waves a hand, as if to pelt off an interruption that won’t come.“Was a fantasy of mine. The desperation, the lack of relief, the possibility of being found… One of those stupid things you get off on but know you’ll never do, you know? Except I did. And it’s surprisingly easy to tie your own wrists behind a trunk, but, turns out, getting those ties off once you realize this is a mistake, with your head all swimming and hot? That’s more difficult. Couldn’t do it. Luckily, a group of beastmen hunters found me and took pity on me.”He grins.“Repeatedly."
Relationships: Original character/Beastman/Beastman/Beastman
Comments: 4
Kudos: 41





	The best of all bad decisions

**Author's Note:**

> there's. there's no excuses. 
> 
> arrives in the tyranny fandom three years late with horny starbucks, i guess

The smaller one with the grey spot moves in Sinking’s periphery, slipping behind the tree he’s tied to. The next moment he feels sharp claws on his wrists.

“Leave it,” the big one growls into Sinking’s hair. Puffs of heated, foul-smelling air are hitting his scalp.

“Leave it?” the smaller one answers, confused.  
“But- human is tied.”

“Leave it,” Sinking echoes, and a rumble of amusement makes the beastman’s chest vibrate against his face.

“Human likes being tied.” The big one again.

“Likes being tied?” the middle one, this time. Sinking can hear him scratch his furry head.

“Likes it.” the big one states.

His impressive claws tighten around Sinking’s thighs, and then the hard bark of the tree rasps across his robed back as he’s hoisted upwards, feeling the ropes rub his wrists on the other side, and it’s- it’s kind of nice, actually, though that might be the berries speaking. Kind of… Tight. And the motion drags his aching crotch against soft fur, bringing the first promise of relief he’s had in ages.

His bleary vision is filled with the beastman’s flat face. Stars, he smells bad.

“Human likes being tied…” it rumbles, permanently snarled lips twitching with the words. Beastmen are notoriously hard to read, but he gets the impression that this one is quite pleased. Sinking swallows and tries not to breathe too deep.

“I-“ he begins, stuttering, wishing he could buck against the stranger but hopelessly restrained, “I mean, h-he does. You’re right.” And the beastman makes that deep, satisfied rumble again, almost purring but not quite soft enough. Stars. _Stars._

Apparently satisfied (albeit confused), the smaller one pads back into view.

“Human is good for rutting, then?” he asks. The middle one shakes its huge head.

“Human is small and weak. Will break if rutted properly.”

“Fall-Foot wouldn’t know. Fall-Foot is bad at rutting; human will pretend to break to get Fall-Foot off him!”

“Fall-Foot is good, it is Lay-Claw who is bad! Mewls and whimpers like newborn on his back!”

As the two of them (Fall-Foot and Lay-Claw, apparently) argue over sexual prowess, the big one, the dark one, runs his massive hands across Sinking’s thighs, up and to his hip. He hooks a claw into whatever fabric he finds and pulls at it until it either tears or comes off. Sinking bites his lip but does not protest. It’s not like these are expensive clothes, anyway.

“What’s your name?” he breathes. The big one gazes at him with eyes so dark he cannot rightly tell where the pupils end.

“Keeps-In-Mouth,” he replies. He does not offer an explanation. Sinking would be burning with curiosity if he was not burning with something else right now. Then, with a loud _rip, _there is suddenly air against the small of his back; the top of his pants have caught the bad end of a beastman claw, and, suddenly loose, they start to slip down. Keeps-In-Mouth gives a satisfied grunt and lets go of his legs for a moment to let the offending fabric fall.

He’s heard that taking deep breaths is supposed to calm one down. This is a lie. Every time Sinking opens his mouth he’s greeted with air so thick with musk that he can chew it, and it does nothing to ease the relentless heat in his now-free cock, bouncing stupidly in the empty nothing. Keeps-In-Mouth crouches down like he’s going to inspect the member, but then the claws hook under Sinking’s knees and lift him unceremoniously, placing his legs firmly on his furry shoulders. He can feel the beastman’s hot breath on his crotch.  
He understands what’s happening a second before he feels it; a tongue, longer and broader than it has any right to be, whips out against his ass and slathers his hole in drool. _Oh, _he thinks.  
“Oh,” he says.

Keeps-In-Mouth has planted both claws on his cheeks to keep his hips tilted forward, and it’s a good thing too, because the second his body registers the promise of relief it disconnects from his brain and starts moving on its own, and if he wasn’t being held in place he would be bucking against that tongue, trying to impale himself on it, trying to get _anything _other than this pounding, relentless heat in his limbs. He moans a little too loudly when he’s finally breached and the hot, roaring feeling is replaced by something slick and wet.

Over the dark cloud of Keeps-In-Mouth’s head he can see the other two, apparently waiting for something. Hungry-eyed and panting. They’re both hard, he notices, and there’s something primally pleasing about knowing it’s because of him. 

He arches until the back of his head is pushing against the tree, feeling his back pop with the motion. He couldn’t have closed his mouth if he wanted to. That ridiculously long tongue moves experimentally inside him before it goes deeper, and deeper, and then the beastman’s whole face is pressed into his feverish flesh, like he’s trying to reach something- the appendage does something acrobatic to his insides and Sinking stutters a curse, before feeling himself slowly start to stretch. The tongue is doubling back over itself to feel thicker. It’s one of the strangest sensations of his life.

It serves a clear purpose, though; with Sinking’s hands restrained he can’t exactly prep himself, and asking the clawed beastmen to finger him would give “scissoring” a whole new, unpleasant meaning. Getting his ass ate serves the double purpose of stretching and lubing.  
Approaching delirity as he is, this strikes Sinking as absolutely genius.

Keeps-In-Mouth is the biggest and strongest, so he gets to do what he wants. Beastman hierarchies aren’t too different from human ones in that regard. Sinking finds himself pushed and prodded into an embarrassing position halfway up the tree, knees hiked up to his ribs and spread wide. The outside air feels cold where he’s wet. 

He’s not exactly been a virtuous man in his life, this is not his first rodeo, and the berries are making him stupid with lust, so when Keeps-In-Mouth uses his grip on his knees to pull his hips from the treetrunk and aligns his spear with its target, he welcomes it. Tries to relax.  
He knows it’s going to be uncomfortable at first and he _wants it_, damn it, but... It’s just that in all the hands and warmth and fur that has lead up to this moment, Sinking has forgotten to actually get a look at what his partners are working with, and now he _feels_ it. He swallows nervously. Suppose he can’t be too surprised that Keeps-In-Mouth has a dick to match the rest of him.  
The beastman notices his apprehension and makes a sound like laughter.

“Human is small,” he says, showing his brilliant mastery of the common language.  
“Human can take it,” Sinking replies, because mama didn’t raise no coward. 

The beastman laughs again (is it laughter?) and pushes forward, slowly, his black eyes transfixed on the scene between them that Sinking can’t see, but he sure as hell can feel it, and fuck, it _sears_.

He’s wet enough for it but the sheer fucking _size _of the thing, it- it’s like being pried open with a crowbar. His head rolls uselessly from shoulder to shoulder, groaning, snapping at mouthful of airs that seem too thick to breathe, and Keeps-In-Mouth lifts him up to give him a sense of blessed relief - for a second. Then gravity remembers he exists and starts pulling him down, sheathing the massive cock again.  
He whispers the beastman’s name, and something about the shake in his voice brings his partner in close. Close enough that the purr-like rumbles rattling in his chest spread to Sinking’s sore, heaving self, which is… Comforting, in a strange way. So is the heat. So is the skin. When he thrusts again, slower this time, he’s close enough that the movement drags across Sinking’s dick, and that does the trick.

“Ah,” Sinking whispers, “that’s it. T-that’s it.”  
Keeps-In-Mouth growls something affirmative and does it again; pushing him up and then letting him down, the size becoming tolerable when it’s paired with the pleasure of being stroked. _Ah_, he says again, no longer a whisper. _Ah, ah-_  
  
Once he’s assured his human is enjoying himself, the beastman leans back, leaving a few inches of hot air between their chests. The angle makes every thrust clap perversely. 

He’s dealt with beastmen often, even if never this intimately, and he’s still surprised by the fluid simplicity of the rut.  
He’s lost to the vast expanse of skin and bristly fur, riding the high of being held, of being used, and never does his lover squeeze him hard enough to hurt unless he asks for it, even if he can. Keeps-In-Mouth could annihilate him if he wanted. Knowing that is thrilling, and it mingles in his stomach with the feeling of being technically, but joyfully, trapped there. Suspended by the pressure on both sides.  
He knew the danger of it would turn him on (that’s kind of the point of tying oneself up), but is still surprised by just how well he takes to it. Being fucked into a tree feels like scratching an itch; sometimes literally, when Keeps-In-Mouth gets the angle right and slides off his prostate, but mostly mentally.

Fuck, it’s _good_. It’s so good. He tries to say it out loud but his windpipe is occupied with noises he’s sure he’s never made before, which, when he thinks about it, probably gets the message across just as well as words.

Then there’s something heavy and warm pressed against his ass, and he realizes Keeps-In-Mouth has bottomed out. It makes Sinking huff with laughter for reasons he can’t explain. Maybe he’s losing his mind. The beastman is too tall to speak into his ears, so when he talks the words come down it hot puffs at the top of his head. 

“Human is doing well.”

Oh yes, _praise. _How could he forget. Sinking’s unattended cock twitches at the words.

“You’ve… You’ve done this before,” he pants, subtly trying to grind forward and failing miserably. Keeps-In-Mouth purrs. 

“Yes. Many times, many humans. This one is good. _Fits._”

_He fits. _As if to prove it, Keeps-In-Mouth rolls forward and presses his human into the tree, forcing him to straighten his back and take it. If this one is the talkative type, then maybe he could get a different itch scratched. It’s worth a shot. 

“C-could you…” he begins, before he’s interrupted by his own breath tripping in his throat. Tries again.  
“Call- call me a, a-” _fucking say it. _He knows what he wants. They’re beyond shame at this point, right? He swallows an excessive amount of spit and gets the words out before they can jumble.

“A c-cocksleeve. Say I’m a good cocksleeve.”

He feels his face burn when he says it, but the beastman simply rumbles and pushes him up again, pace slowing as he seems to think. 

“_Cocksleeve_,” he repeats, and _holy shit _does the word pair well with that voice, “beastman does not know this word.”  
“Please, just say it.”

He’s rewarded with a quick, unexpected thrust that sends his thoughts skittering into the ether, and then there’s bare chest pressing against his face, talons sinking into his thick thighs, a suffocating closeness so complete that he can feel the beastman’s words more than he can hear them, vibrating all the way from his skull to his ankles.

“Human is a good cocksleeve,” Keeps-In-Mouth tells him, and Sinking stops existing for a second.

When he comes back in a rush of held breath he finds the pace has increased, and he’s moaning so fucking loud he’s half-expecting a flock of birds to take off overhead. Keeps-In-Mouth has a steel grip on his legs to keep him from sliding further up the tree as he pushes in, and out, and in- and- and out, and _holy shit_-  
He could cum from this, he realizes. Even if no one is touching his cock there’s still some friction, just a bit, maybe just enough- 

“Ah- ah-again,”  
The beastman makes that noise, the thing that might be laughter, but Sinking can feel his grip slipping, and knowing that the other is coming undone as well sends a surge of something through him.  
“Human is a good little cocksleeve,” he growls, outright pounding now. If there are gods, Sinking is seeing their faces.  
“Good for rutting. Good for alpha.”  
_Yes, yes he is. I am. _He can’t tell if he’s saying it out loud or not and he does not care.  
_I am. I am. So close. So fucking close-_

And then it happens; not an orgasm, at least not on his part, but a rush of warmth and wet as the beastman empties into him, and that’s almost as good.  
In the seconds of stillness that follow, Sinking feels something like a kiss being pressed to his head. He swears he can hear Keeps-In-Mouth call him a good boy, though that might be wishful thinking.

His vision is swimming but the feedback from his body is clear as day, so even if he can’t _see _Fall-Foot take him over, he feels the change of hands. The two beastmen smell exactly the same to him, but Fall-Foot has a ragged scar just above his right nipple that makes him feel different when Sinking leans in. He drags his lips along the damaged skin and is rewarded with a huff.

“Fall-Foot is good,” Fall-Foot assures him. He tries to enter him but misses, rubbing his cock over the fold where Sinking’s stomach meets his upper thigh instead. Getting right to it, then.  
“Make human feel nice. Make human _mewl._”  
He thrusts again, misses again. Then he hits.  
Sinking mewls. 

There’s no resistance left, just cum-slicked warmth as he slips in. Once again he lets his head roll forward, and once again there’s the feeling of being filled, claimed, but with none of the pain that Keeps-In-Mouth brought, and with none of the need for adjustment. It’s _perfect.  
_He lets the beastman known as much and gets an appreciative grunt back, before they settle into a slow, deep pace, a hard contrast to the moments before.

It’s… Nice. And that’s all it is. He can appreciate someone who takes their time getting to know the deepest parts of him, and there’s something to be said for for the ache of being almost pushed and never quite getting there, but- he didn’t gobble down aphrodisiacs and tie himself up to be _made_ _love to. _  
He rubs his face into the beastman’s chest and makes a noise he hopes will spur him into action (something high-pitched and wanton, it usually works), but his partner simply pants and grinds into him. It’s torturous. 

“Faster,” Sinking begs, missing how ragged his voice sounded while Keeps-In-Mouth was fucking him. Fall-Foot just grunts.  
“No faster. Human will break.”  
Sinking has to stop himself from asking if the beastman was here just a minute ago. Instead he plants a sloppy kiss to the parts he can reach and whispers back, making every syllable drip with desire.

“Come on, big guy. Didn’t you want to make me mewl?”

Fall-Foot growls and hilts himself, just a little bit harder than before. Then he shudders and stops, breath heavy, his eyes burning under half-closed lids, and returns to his own pace.  
Sinking groans.

“Oh, _please._”  
“Fall-Foot is good,” Fall-Foot says again, with a voice steady as gravel under cartwheels, “Fall-Foot makes human feel good without breaking.”  
“Your alpha wasn’t afraid of breaking me.”  
Sinking feels the dick twitch inside him, knows that he’s hit gold. His partner tightens his grip on his ass until flesh bulges between his claws. Comes in close, real close, until Sinking can’t see his face above him anymore, just hear and feel the words.

“Keeps-In-Mouth is _not _alpha.”  
“But he- hng- acted like one-”

There it is. The lazy rolling of hips quickens, turns almost jittery. Sinking moans into what little space he can find between his lips and the other man’s chest.

“Keeps-In-Mouth rutted me harder,” he antagonizes, “like he meant it. Because he’s- ah, _fuck- _because he’s s-strong,”  
“Fall-Foot is strong.” and Sinking suddenly realizes how true that is. At least compared to him and his fragile, human body. His cheeks are definitely bruising. In a clearer state of mind he might question the wisdom of playing with fire like this, but right now, all he can think of is how his words makes the beastman’s thrusts fast and shallow. There’s teeth pressing flatly into the side of his head.

“I don’t know if you- y- you’re strong,”  
Fuck, fuck- that’s it, that’s exactly what he needs-  
“You have to- ah- _show me_,”

Fall-Foot suddenly wrenches their bodies apart, his claws letting go of Sinking’s ass to slip up his thighs and hook under his knees, holding them up and far apart. The cold air on his torso makes him tense up, just for a moment, and then that tension is unceremoniously and thoroughly broken.  
Fall-Foot slams back into him with the same measured care as the wind might slam a door. Sinking can’t recognize the noise he makes, but lacking any fur to muffle it in, it joins the chorus of skin now echoing between the trees.

“_Show me,_” Fall-Foot mimics, making his voice high.  
“_Show me, show me, rut me like alpha,”_  
He can feel the blood rush to his face with the mockery, and it strikes him again that this might be a mistake. It doesn’t feel like a mistake, though. It doesn’t feel like a mistake at all. He moans loudly, voice now exactly as ragged and breathless as he wanted it to be, trying to roll his hips back onto the thing spearing him and being met with a dominating, decisive push back into the tree. He tries to speak up (_you’re right, you’re strong, I was a fool, I deserve this) _but- there’s not enough _air_, there’s not enough air left in the _world_. Fall-Foot growls every time Sinking makes his pleasure known, like the punishment isn’t going as intended.  
Then he growls for a different reason.

Two harsh claps of skin ring out, then Fall-Foot is balls-deep, rumbling loud enough that Sinking can feel it in his teeth. He’s not too numb to feel the sticky rush of warmth when the beastman cums, adding his labours to the pool left by Keeps-In-Mouth.  
Then he leans forward, embracing the human in post-coital warmth, and grumbles what sounds like an amused apology into his hair; something about not breaking and being thankful. Something about being more careful. Sinking can’t find the words to respond, but he huffs in what he hopes is an affirmative tone.

(He dimly notes that “Balls-Deep” could be a good beastman name and wonders if anyone’s claimed that one yet)

Then Fall-Foot pulls out with a squelch. Sinking does not feel empty anymore.

The smallest one, Lay-Claw, pants in his ear. He does not know when he came this close. When his packmate hands Sinking over like he’s passing a ball, Lay-Claw takes him so hard that his claws leave zebra stripes on his thighs.  
Somewhere in the stuffed haze of his mind, Sinking feels a little sorry for the last beastman. He probably has to wait for a lot of stuff. It must be hard being small in a tribe that values strength over everything. He could give him a good show to make up for it.

As the beastman takes position, Sinking leans heavily against him. He’s short enough for Sinking to rest his chin on his shoulder, so he does, and directs his mouth as close to Lay-Claw’s ear as he can.

“I’ve been waiting for you,” he whispers. He can barely recognize the sticky, sultry tones in his own voice. Lay-Claw reacts by gripping him tighter. Too tight. Kind-of-hurts tight. Fuck, it’s kind of _good_. 

“Beastman has been waiting too,” the runt pants, rubbing himself against Sinking’s belly. He’s throbbing. Poor guy.  
Then all thoughts of sympathy are blown out of his head when the beastman shifts, aligns, and _slams_ right into him, covering Sinking’s gasp with an obscenely loud slap of skin, and he swears he sees _stars- _and then it just keeps going, immediately settling in a harrowing tempo that brings those stars closer with each hit.

The sounds he makes are high-pitched and pathetic, matching the needy whines of his impatient mate. He’s ragdolled in the beastman’s grasp. Lay-Claw fucks like he has a personal vendetta against him and it’s _doing something- _like- like a spike shooting up his curled spine every time it’s forced against the hardness behind him, something sharp and warm, something mind-numbing, something toe-curling, and he can’t- he- fuck, _fuck-_

He buries his face in Lay-Claw’s fur and screams when the orgasm takes him, hitting him like a mallet in the stomach, brought forth by his unattended cock finally finding some actual friction against the body of the other. His whole body screams with him. He can hear the beastman’s surprised grunt when his hole suddenly clenches, arresting his movement for a second, and when he speaks he sounds disgustingly pleased with himself.

“Human likes,” he growls.

“Oh,” Sinking gasps, feeling hot and sore and full in all the right places, “Oh, _he does,_”

Lay-Claw fucks him through it with surprising care, and when Sinking gives him a shaking, satisfied go-ahead, he speeds up again. His long wait has made him reckless. Sinking doesn’t mind. Despite the constant impacts reminding him how corporeal he is, he feels like he’s _flying_.

It quickly becomes obvious that this isn’t going to last long, and he doesn’t mind that either. There’s a long, rasping tongue drawing trails up the side of his head, claws raking roads in his skin, he might be bleeding- it’s all balled up and pressed against the pressure in his head like a compress to a wound- then Lay-Claw gets close and mumbles something into his hair, words picked apart and made nonsense, but he’s shuddering now, almost shaking, and Sinking knows what it means- welcomes it- there’s- _ah, fuck,_

The beastman hilts himself and howls, and Sinking would howl with him if he had any breath to spare. Instead he just breathes deeply against the sensation of being filled for the third time.  
This has to be it. It’s over. There’s only three of them (he’s counted) and they’ve all had him, leaving him split and leaking and deeply content. This has to be it.

But of course it’s not. 

Lay-Claw pulls out of him, yes, and he steps back, but instead of letting Sinking down he simply gathers his legs up and hands him to the side, where a different pair of hands are ready to receive him.  
And so it goes on.

The movements are slower, now. Gentle, now. He can’t stop his tongue from lolling out his mouth. There’s a peace to his bones that he hasn’t felt in a long time, too long, like the peace of the grave after a long and tiring life. He moves with the thrusts and pretends like he’s more than just a fuckable sack of potatoes at this point, knowing well that he’s not. There’s peace in that, too.

Fuck, he’s so _warm. _So damn exhausted. Like- like all that he had was in that orgasm, and now that it’s forced out of him he’s left hollow inside. His bestial partners seem more than happy to fill that space, though, and he lets them, again and again, as many times as they want, lolling and moaning into sweat-slicked fur, breathing affirmatives when they ask him things- he has no idea what they’re asking, but it’s always slow and rumbling and the thrusts are slow and rumbling and _he _is slow and rumbling, melting-

He didn’t know he could get hard again so quickly. Must be some devious machination of the berries he ate. When he switches hands again (claws?) he feels the leathery texture of skin on his cock, and it somehow manages to twitch back to life. The sensation of it is a little too much a little too soon and he groans with it, but can’t exactly stop it, either. Supposes he could speak up. He thinks they’d listen. It’s just that the thought of stopping now when he’s so damn close to reaching bliss is borderline blasphemous, so he just leans into the strong chest at his forehead and rolls his half-mast experimentally against a bared stomach, sucking air through his teeth when it makes his head pound.

“Human is tough,” the beastman pants, sliding easily into his ass. He must be gaping by now. In the back of his mind he wonders how the fuck they’re still going. How long has it been?

The world is a haze of waves and heat and rut-scent. The constant shifting of his tied wrists against the tree must be grinding down the ropes by now. He dimly realizes that he’s going to take the best fucking nap of his life once this is over. If it is ever over. It doesn’t seem like it will be; through the fog between his ears he can barely remember a time before this one, has a hard time imagining a time after. Maybe he was made for this. Maybe this is the epic destiny he has been neglecting all these years- just being shoved against a tree by beastmen taking turns, used and filled and emptied and then used again. Honestly, he wouldn’t mind if this was forever.

Maybe it has already been forever. Fuck. _Fuck._

He comes again at one of their requests (can’t remember which, they’re becoming one, fur-lined entity at this point) but doesn’t produce much. The clench still gets him a satisfied rumble, though. Someone is making an absolute embarrassing chorus of noises. It’s probably him. Then there’s one last heave of someone’s body against his, the bark against his back, humid air on his scorching skin, and it’s like a fever breaking. The clouds parting. When they let go of him this time they let him buckle under his own weight and go down in a jumble of limbs, and he’s left panting on the forest floor, too exhausted to even sit up straight.

Something huge comes down to his level and cradles him. Something sharp touches his wrists. The loud pop of his shoulders coming back into position is the only thing that tells him he’s free, because he sure as fuck can’t feel his arms anymore. Then he’s moved and squeezed between something soft- no, two soft things- no, _three_, and he wonders for a brief moment if they’re actually finished or if they’re just changing positions. If they wanted a collective go at him, he wouldn’t mind. He’s probably loose enough. They’re gonna have to do it to his sleeping body, though, because Sinking blinks out the moment his body is straightened out, and the overpowering smell of filth and sex is the last thing he knows for a long, long time.

When he wakes up he kind of wishes he had died in his sleep.

When he was young and stupid, which is to say three months ago, he had gotten uproariously drunk with a couple of carpenters in Halfgate, and it had somehow been decided that they would tie a wheelbarrow to a horse and try to ride it through the street. It had gone exactly as well as it could have, and Sinking had ended up dragged behind this horse, his head bouncing off the cracked earth, for at least a league. The morning after that event had felt eerily similar to this one.  
He wants to swear, but it’s like his lungs have been pushed up. Instead he just lies there for a moment and soaks in the pained exhaustion of his muscles. This. This had been a bad idea. His shoulders feel like they’re one strong wind away from dislocating and his thighs, hips and ass have all been bruised so badly that it feels like he’s still being held by three pairs of hands. When he manages to contort his spine into a sitting position he feels a rush of warm damp between his legs, indicating that he’s still leaking. 

He closes his eyes and breathes through the discomfort. There’s no use lying to himself.  
Does this hurt? Yes.  
Was it a very stupid thing to do? Yes.  
Would he do it again in a heartbeat? Fuck, _yes. _

He groans and rubs his eyes against the sun. No use crying over spilled milk. Or, not milk. A milk-like substance. His own unspoken joke makes him chuckle, and then wince as the laughter tries to inflate his thoroughly beaten lungs.  
No, this was… This was pretty great, he has to admit. And it didn’t even get him robbed (save for the pair of pants that were torn off him, rest in pieces), so that’s good.

He gathers the remnants of fabric into his discarded backpack and makes a couple of attempts at standing up. Once he’s up on his feet, trying to ignore the trickle down his inner thigh, he sets off on shaky legs, heading home.


End file.
